


Untitled (Glasgow)

by divinecomedienne



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7086178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinecomedienne/pseuds/divinecomedienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their trip to the Seychelles, Simmons persuades a reluctant Fitz to visit somewhere less exotic: his hometown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled (Glasgow)

“Every time we’ve come back to the UK together, we’ve always come here. You must’ve stayed here ten times or more over the years and I’ve never even once been there. It’s ridiculous. And it’s even more ridiculous that you still won’t take me there now that you and I are….” Simmons made a vague waving gesture across the table.

“That’s because it’s nice here, Jemma,” said Fitz, looking around the large, well-tended garden in which they sat. The early autumn evening was warm and quiet except for an occasional scuffling from behind the potting shed, where Bilbo, the Simmons’ beagle puppy, was playing with a new chew toy. “Why would we want to go up there?” Fitz continued. “It’s Scotland, so it’s nearly always freezing. And she lives in the middle of the city, so it’s not a very relaxing place for a holiday. And anyway, I’ve told you, she doesn’t like meeting new people and— Are you even listening to me?” he broke off indignantly.

Simmons looked up from tapping at her phone and sighed. “Of course I’m listening to you. Fitz, we’ve just spent over a week laying on a beach on a tropical island; we can cope with a cold Scottish city for a day or two. And I’m not a new person: I’ve spoken to your mum hundreds of times on the phone and on FaceTime. She was just saying the other day how it’s crazy that we’ve never actually met and that we’re welcome to visit her any time!” Simmons got up with a purposeful air. 

Fitz looked at her apprehensively. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to leave,” Simmons called over her shoulder as she headed back into the house. “I just checked—the last direct train to Glasgow is in an hour. I’ll ask Dad to give us a lift to the station.”

*****

Fitz remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout the journey. He loved trains and would usually chatter happily away about their history—especially the vital role played by the Scottish engineer James Watt—whenever he and Simmons had the opportunity to travel by rail. But today he just sat and stared out of the window at the darkening countryside, unreceptive to Simmons’ attempted bribes of KitKats and kisses. She began to wonder if she’d made a mistake in forcing him to make the trip. Still, she told herself, it was too late to turn back now. 

*****

It was well past ten o’clock by the time Fitz and Simmons found their way to the taxi rank outside Queen Street station. They headed towards the first car in the queue but when Fitz gave the driver the address he looked embarrassed and switched off his orange light. “Och, sorry, but I’ve just seen the time. That’s me done for the night. Mind how you go,” he said as he pulled away.

“What was that all about?” huffed Simmons. “It’s not like we’re going very far, is it? I thought you said it was about a fifteen-minute drive to your mum’s place.”

Fitz shrugged uncomfortably and approached the second waiting driver. He too gave them a strange look when he heard the address but didn’t voice any objections.

The taxi soon carried them away from the Glasgow Simmons remembered from her one previous visit—a short stop on a school trip years ago. The imposing red and brown Victorian buildings were replaced with fried chicken shops, bookmakers and tanning parlours, or, increasingly, shop-fronts that were boarded up or encased in metal grilles bearing warning signs to squatters.

Eventually, the driver stopped on a road with a brick wall topped with barbed wire on one side and a metal fence on the other. It was very dark as most of the streetlights were broken but Simmons could make out the looming shapes of tall buildings beyond the fence.

“Alright if I drop you here,” said the cabbie in a tone of voice that made it clear it wasn’t a question. Fitz grimaced but then nodded and handed over the fare.

“Jemma, I don’t suppose you brought an ICER?” he asked as the taxi sped away into the night. “Or any other kind of weapon?”

“No, Fitz. Funnily enough, I did not bring any weapons with me on our romantic getaway!” she replied, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh well. Just walk fast, keep your head down and, erm, it’s probably best if you don’t speak until we’re inside. Your accent is a bit conspicuous round here.” With that, he took Simmons’ hand and set off down the road at a speed that she—wearing a pair of high wedge espadrilles she’d bought from a market in the Seychelles—found frankly unnecessary.

They turned right off the road where the fence ended and into what Simmons now saw was a housing estate: blocks of flats of varying heights were interspersed with patches of scrubby grass and large squares of cracked tarmac dotted with a few cars and a lot of litter. 

In the centre of the estate was an ancient-looking children’s playground lit an eerie yellow by one of the few working streetlights: a couple of swings, a rusty slide and a seesaw that was missing one of its seats, encircled by backless concrete benches. A group of teenagers were huddled around one of the benches smoking and handing round a large plastic bottle of something. As Fitz and Simmons passed the teenagers stopped talking and eyed them suspiciously. Simmons suddenly became very aware of the loud clattering of the wheeled suitcase she was pulling. One of the boys shouted something unintelligible and his friends laughed but, to Simmons’ relief, they showed no sign of leaving the playground.

Fitz led Simmons to one of the smaller towerblocks, a squat grey building with rows of identical square windows.

“Watch where you tread inside. I’ve seen syringes in the lobby before,” warned Fitz as he pushed open the door, its keypad entry system apparently no longer functional. 

Simmons glanced warily across the floor of the cramped hallway but saw nothing more sinister than a large pile of dog-eared junk mail and some rank-smelling bin bags. She headed towards the lift doors at the far end but Fitz called her back: “That thing’s not worked in my lifetime. When I was eleven I wrote to the council offering to fix it. Sent them a diagram and everything but they never even wrote back.”

Simmons smiled and shook her head a little distractedly. She was finding it all hard to process. This was where Fitz grew up? _This?_

They lugged their suitcases up the stairs to the fourth floor and along the narrow, semi-open walkway onto which the front doors of the flats opened. A dog suddenly started barking aggressively as they passed one of the doors, making them both jump. “I always forget about Angus. That’s Mrs McNamara’s Doberman,” Fitz explained. “He’s sweet as a lamb once he gets to know you.”

They stopped outside a blue door, which, like many of the others, was covered with a wrought iron gate. Fitz reached through the bars and knocked gently.

“I hope your mum’s in,” said Simmons. “Maybe we should have called. Do you have your keys?”

“She’ll be in. She never goes out at night.” Fitz glanced at his watch. “She’ll be going to bed soon though.”

Sure enough, the door opened, first a crack and then wide, to reveal a small woman with curly grey hair wearing a long dressing gown. “Leo! And Jemma! What a wonderful surprise!” She beamed at them as she unlocked the gate.

“Hi, Mum.” Fitz beamed back and allowed himself to be enfolded in a tight embrace. “Sorry to just show up like this. It was Jemma’s idea.”

“It was a brilliant idea!” said his mother, releasing Fitz and turning to hug Simmons. “I keep telling you both to come and see me any time you like.”

“Thanks, Fiona,” said Simmons, shooting Fitz a ‘told-you-so’ glance.

Fiona ushered them through the tiny hall and into a living room that seemed almost equally small, perhaps partially due to the oppressive floral wallpaper. There was not much in it apart from a battered brown sofa and armchair, both covered with knitted blankets; an old-fashioned gas fire with artificial logs and a long wooden sideboard, on top of which stood a small, square television. The whole room could have come straight from the 1970s, Simmons thought, if it weren’t for the gleaming white iPad that sat incongruously on the coffee table.

*****

“You’ll be staying a few days, I hope?” Fiona asked eagerly once Fitz and Simmons were settled on the sofa with a tray of tea and biscuits in front of them. “We’ll have to put Jemma—or maybe you, Leo— on the Z bed in here, but it’s quite comfy.”

“It’s OK, Mum. We’ll just, erm… We can both, er, sleep in my room,” Fitz mumbled, looking so uncomfortable that Simmons had to repress a grin.

“Oh. I see. OK then.” His mother also seemed to be supressing a smile. “Well, in that case, I’ll leave you to it. It’s getting late and I expect you’ll be wanting to get straight to bed. We’ll have a proper chat in the morning. Sleep well, both of you.”

She made to leave the room but then turned back. “Actually Leo, would you mind just having a wee word with your granda before you go to bed? I was on the phone to him when you arrived and I know he’d love to hear your voice. He worries about you, you know.”

“Yeah, no problem, Mum,” said Fitz. “My room’s just on the left, Jemma, if you want to get settled in. I won’t be long.”

*****

Fitz had said ‘my room’ and it really was very much still his room, Simmons discovered, when she opened the door. His mother had apparently not altered it all, despite the twelve years that had passed since her son left home. Advanced engineering textbooks jostled for position on the shelves with Airfix models, Iain M. Banks novels and _Star Wars_ figurines; on the wall, intricate technical drawings were interspersed with _Doctor Who_ posters and the narrow steel-framed bed was almost entirely covered with assorted plush monkeys.

Simmons pushed some of the monkeys aside and sat down on the bed, her eye caught by a photograph that was taped to the wall near the pillow. The photo was of her, Simmons, holding a trophy up to the camera and grinning. She remembered it well: it had been taken near the end of her and Fitz’s first year at the Academy. He’d contracted glandular fever and been sent home for five weeks, consequently missing the annual awards ceremony at which he should have been presented with the prize for best first-year non-lethal weapon design. Simmons had collected the trophy on his behalf and posted the photo to him as a kind of proxy until she could hand over the real thing.

Simmons’ chest tightened with both affection, that he should have taped the photo next to his bed, and pride. It was a pride she felt whenever she saw evidence of one of Fitz’s innumerable achievements, but now, looking around this small room with its peeling paint and cheap furniture, the feeling was amplified tenfold.

*****

When Fitz came into the room ten minutes later, Simmons was standing by the window wearing a pair of his boxers and an old Biffy Clyro t-shirt that she’d found in a drawer. She was watching a stream of police cars go whizzing down the road behind the estate in a blur of blue lights.

Fitz came up behind her and put his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Bet you’re wishing we stayed at your mum and dad’s now that you’ve seen this place,” he said, when the wailing of sirens had subsided.

“Don’t be silly; of course I’m not,” replied Simmons. “I’m so happy to have finally met your mum in person. She’s really lovely.”

“Yeah, she is,” agreed Fitz warmly. Then, after a pause, he continued: “I’ve tried to get her to move loads of times, you know. I’ve got enough money saved up that I could help her buy somewhere nice—in Glasgow, of course; she’d never move away from Granda—but she won’t take a penny from me. I only got her to accept that iPad I gave her—on what she insists is a bloody loan—so that we could FaceTime each other!” He’d moved round to face Simmons and was talking softly but at speed, a pleading look on his face, as if he were trying to convince her of something she didn’t believe.

“Oh, Fitz, I’m sure you’ve tried,” Simmons soothed, taking both his hands in hers. “But there’s only so much you can do; she’s a grown woman. Tell you what, maybe when we get our cottage in Perthshire we can convince her _and_ your granddad to move nearby!”

Fitz smiled, nodded and pulled her in for a kiss. She kissed back enthusiastically, glad to have finally succeeded in cheering him up. Moments passed; the kiss deepened and Simmons began to undo the buttons on Fitz’s shirt.

“Jemma!” hissed Fitz, suddenly noticing what she was doing. “My _mum’s_ next door and these walls are paper thin!”

“We’ll just have to be very quiet then,” she whispered back. “You know, it’s a skill most people learn when they’re teenagers.”

“Well, sorry, but I was a bit too busy with my PhD when I was a teenager to sneak any girls home,” retorted Fitz haughtily, but there was mischief in his eyes and his fingers had slipped under the waistband of Simmons’ shorts.

“I know. I was busy too—with both my PhDs! I suppose we’ll just have to make up for lost time, won’t we?” And she pushed him down onto the monkeys.


End file.
